


Pretender

by almostbeautiful



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Poisoning, Rio is a subpar nurse, Vomiting, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2020-10-29 03:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostbeautiful/pseuds/almostbeautiful
Summary: “I’m a  good pretender, won’t you come see my show? I’ve got lots of problems, well, good thing nobody knows…” - AKA, Beth’s happy-go-lucky facade cracks apart to reveal a human being, and Rio has trouble reciprocating.





	1. Bitter Looks and Bitterer Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> Song that inspired the title: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDDdEFfuMbU (Pretender by AJR)
> 
> Trigger warning (TW) for poisoning.
> 
> Inspired in part by the breakfast scene in 1x08 that I desperately wish was longer. Set after 2x04, in a magical fantasy land where things are closer to the pace of season 1 and discussing business over breakfast has kind of become “their thing”. 
> 
> Season 2 isn't available on any of the big streaming services in the US, so I haven't actually seen it, but I've gotten my grubby little hands on lots of spoilers. Apologies in advance for any possible plot inconsistencies.

Breakfast, as Beth’s mother always used to say (as she absentmindedly shoved a bowl of cereal in her direction) is the most important meal of the day. She, personally, is more of a dinner girl, but who can turn down a good omelette? Thoughts of omelettes and sugary cereals and her mother’s love of mimosas swirl in her head as she sends the kids out the door, Dean taking them on some weekend fishing trip. Not that he fishes, he doesn’t, but he wants to be the kind of dad who does, so he bought himself a set of poles, a tackle box, and a bucket hat from a garage sale and came home, all smiles. They each had her cell and the house phone numbers memorized - she checked, twice. As for her, Ruby and Annie are coming over that night for a drop followed by wine and a movie, and she’s supposedly having breakfast with their “gang friend”. He always showed, but sometimes he only got coffee, which she hardly counts as breakfast.   
As soon as she enters the quaint diner, she sees him. Granted, there aren’t many other people there, but he just...stands out. They’re a sea of light wash denim and faded t-shirts. Rio? Maroon button up, dark jeans, cheek pillowed on his calloused palm. Beth sits down across from him, gentle smile pulling at her lips despite herself at the sight of the two plates of food already laid out. For her, rye toast and eggs over easy, coffee with one sugar packet and two of the little half and half cups. For him, an untouched omelette and his own coffee, though she’s yet to learn exactly how he takes it. Not fair, since he’s apparently memorized her order, but she isn’t about to bring it up.  
He clears his throat, and just as he’s drawing in a breath to speak, she snags a forkful of omelette from his plate. She pops it in her mouth before he can say anything, though his little eyebrow raise says it all. She’s in an omelette mood, sue her. Chew, chew, she thinks she maybe tastes swiss? Definitely portobello, slight firmness of the mushroom standing out from the fluffiness of the egg. Just as she’s about to make a jab about how proud of him she is for eating his vegetables, she’s interrupted by the scrape of ceramic against cheap, worn linoleum. His coffee cup. Beth mirrors his earlier eyebrow raise, he her little smile. “Must be thirsty after all that egg, go ahead.” He punctuates it with a jerk of his chin, silent challenge clear in his eyes. She lifts it, curiously peering inside. A little darker than hers, so maybe one creamer instead of two.  
A small sip, bitter taste immediately making her balk. No sugar, then. A little burnt, too. She isn’t about to spit it back in his cup, though the thought crosses her mind - if only to see his eyes bug out of his head. She slides it back across the table, immediately grabbing for her cup to try and wash the taste down. Hers still tastes burnt, but it isn’t so glaringly obvious. This time, just as she draws in a breath to speak (they needed to figure out a new drop location for that night), she’s cut off, surprisingly cheery ringtone chiming from his pocket. He offers half a glance toward the screen, and for a minute, she thinks he’s going to silence it and turn back to her.  
Instead, his eyes widen the slightest bit - he’s out the door, phone to his ear and cash left on the table before she can even blink. Beth can feel where his hand had brushed her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze as a goodbye. This wasn’t an unfamiliar scene, her left at the table to get the bill and finish enjoying breakfast while he went off to deal with whatever issue had arisen at - she glances at her watch - 8:26 in the morning. Enjoy she does, few more bites of his omelette stolen, a couple more sips of his coffee taken as if to confirm that it was just as bitter as the first one, and her own eggs heaped onto her toast and made into a sandwich, which she eats while drinking her burnt coffee and watching the same blurs of faded clothes pass by the window on the way to their faded cars which seem to almost slump against the pavement of the parking lot.  
She finishes, pays the bill, and makes it back home in a record time, still riding off the thrill of adrenaline that seems to always accompany seeing Rio. There isn’t much else on her schedule until the girls come at 5 for dinner and movie night, so, reorganizing the upstairs rooms it is. Actually reorganize, not “hiding loads of money” reorganize. Kenny kept asking her where his Red Wings sweatpants were, and she kept telling him, but every time she washed them, he still came and asked. So, she was putting all of his sweatpants in the same drawer. That way, he’ll maybe stop asking. Not likely, but there’s a chance. She’s just tucking the last pair in the drawer when a wave of nausea hits, so sudden it almost results in her breakfast reappearing in his Buzz Lightyear trash can. It ebbs just long enough for her to make it to the bathroom floor, tile a relief against her suddenly overheated skin.  
The acrid burn of stomach acid brings her right back to the days of morning sickness with all three kids, Dean panicking over her shoulder. As soon as it starts, it ends, leaving her a little winded but no worse for wear. Beth stands, pulls her hair back, brushes her teeth, mind already back in Kenny’s room. Just as she finishes swishing one last mouthful of water, another wave, accompanied by a stab of pain that makes her knuckles go white as her fingers curl around the edge of the sink. Similar to that night with Rio in that godforsaken bathroom, but this time she can barely catch her breath in between dry heaves and stabs of crampy pain. Finally, finally, they pass.  
She’s almost afraid to lift her head from where it’s resting against the lip of the sink, death grip eventually relaxing. A shiver runs up her spine even as she wipes a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead - a fever, she guesses. Food poisoning, maybe, but she hadn’t eaten anything that screamed “I’m a breeding ground for salmonella!”. Stomach flu was looking like the prime contender. With that in mind, she slowly eases away from the sink and returns to Kenny’s room, grabbing her phone and shooting off a text that she was sick and voluntarily quarantining herself. The drop off has presumably been cancelled, if Rio’s abrupt departure is any indication. Annie’s movie choice will have to wait, unfortunately, which she’s already lamenting with a selection of gifs not even a second after Beth’s text goes through.  
Her legs shake as she descends the stairs in search of Pepto or Alka Seltzer - anything resembling an anti-nausea med. Something for her quickly budding headache, too. Preferably unexpired, but she’ll take what she can get. She only makes it as far as the kitchen cabinet, new pain so sharp that it’s all she can do to hunch over the sink, tears starting to gather in her burning eyes. The waves of heat washing over her only make it worse, bringing on heave after fruitless heave. It’s nothing but spit, mucusy and tinged with the yellow of bile. Maybe _not _stomach flu - she’s never felt such crushing pain before, so strong that she’s still getting her breath back a full minute later. Her legs are past shaky, now entering wobbly territory as she pries herself away from the sink once more. The shivers are picking up speed, as if she didn’t have enough to deal with. Beth wobbles her way to the downstairs bathroom, towel grabbed to use as an impromptu pillow on the way. By the looks of it, she’ll be here for a little while.  
When the next stab comes, she thinks she’s ready for it, knees curled against her chest in an attempt to ease the agony. Instead, all of the air is sucked from her lungs in a mix between a gag and a moan. This time, what’s left of her breakfast finally resurfaces - it does _not_ taste better coming back up. The task of reaching the sink to fill a cup with water seems insurmountable, legs threatening to buckle the second she even thinks about standing. With all of the speed and ferocity of a sloth, she manages, out of breath by the time she returns to her new home on the bath mat. She should call someone, she thinks. She would have, if her phone wasn’t currently sitting on the kitchen counter. Another rush of heat in between the tremors, giving her just enough warning to angle her head over the toilet.  
There’s nothing left to bring up, but damn if her stomach isn’t hellbent on trying. She chokes down some of the water from her cup once she finishes, head pounding as if she’s just woken up with the worst hangover of her life, dehydration and all. The lull doesn’t last, pain coming back with a vengeance. Beth doesn’t realize she’s actually crying until she bumps the tears pooling on the toilet seat with her cheek, sudden wetness taking her off guard. She’s gasping, but no sound emerges, knuckles threatening to break through her translucent skin and nails clicking against porcelain.  
She needs to close her eyes, just for a second. Just until the room stops spinning, and then she can get back to her attempts at organizing. Black spots loom at the edges of her vision, pulling her under into nothingness before she can even blink. 


	2. Outlook Not So Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I plan on writing a couple short scenes from Rio's POV and it turns into this.

Rio still hasn’t quite put his finger on how he feels about Beth Boland, after all this time. Sure, he’d put his fingers in her, _all over _her, but she was a damn trouble maker, even when she was trying her best not to be. Mama drama, as he had semi-affectionately dubbed it. He’s sure she’ll catch him up on the latest installment of mama drama over breakfast, which he’s already ordered but hasn’t dug into. Not even his coffee, though his hands are wrapped around the cup. He’s full of nervous energy, showing up to the diner 15 minutes early when he normally strolled in 10 minutes late, much to Beth’s disdain. Can’t say why, just can't get his damn leg to stay still or his fingers to stop twitching.  
The second he spots her in the doorway, with her buttoned up, double-breasted peacoat (yeah, he knew a little bit of somethin’ about style), it all stops. His fingers press flat against the table, knuckles cracking in time with the smile that lights up her face. Sure, he’d ordered them both breakfast and made her coffee the way she liked it, but it wasn’t a big thing. He was efficient, that was all. If he didn’t order for her, he knew she’d spend 10 minutes “browsing” the menu and end up getting the same thing she always got.  
She takes her coat off, settles in, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes trail along her body like he can see right through the table, right through her dress. They’re here for business, but his anxious fingers are suddenly itching for a whole different reason. She’s too busy eyeing his plate to notice - he can see the cogs turning in her head as she unwraps her fork and knife from that sad paper napkin, can spot that she’s about to swipe some of his breakfast long before she actually reaches across, fork descending into slightly overcooked egg and clinking as metal meets ceramic.  
One brow arches before he can stop it. Sure, he could tell she was thinking about it, but it’s a whole other thing to actually have the balls to sit there chewing on his food like it came from her own plate. In something akin to retaliation, he pushes his coffee in her direction. She hesitates before she takes a sip, grimace flashing across her entire face like he’d just tricked her into drinking motor oil. It takes everything he has not to snort, palm mushing against his lips in an attempt to hide the slight hint of a smile. He knew he liked it a little less sweet than she did, but it didn’t deserve _that_ face. His coffee is returned to him so she can scramble for her own, that same damn smile making his lips twitch. She somehow, against all odds, composes herself, and is about to say something when his phone sounds from in his shirt pocket. He pulls it, skims the text, is about to shove it back in his pocket. Wait.  
It takes one second for his brain to comprehend the words on the screen, another for his blood to unfreeze in his veins. ‘Message from D: Hit’s out on u, call me’. Whatever cash he’s got in his pocket is out and on the table before he even processes he’s moving, one hand holding his phone tight to his ear while the other ghosts across Beth’s shoulder on the way out to the street. Call connects halfway through the first ring, Dags’ voice breaking the silence before he gets the chance to start playing 20 Questions. “Don’t got all the details yet, but a couple of the guys heard that your 8 ball’s up - today.” He’s scanning every person he passes without making it look like he’s scanning, his car bypassed in favor of walking until he knows it ain’t rigged. “Tryin’ to figure out who set it up, who’s gonna try it and how they’re gonna.” The more he walks, the calmer he gets, but he’s still scanning every face, every hand shoved in every jacket pocket.  
He nods, nice and slow, goes right past his apartment to the backup he’d bought just for this kind of shit. “Call me soon as you know, a’ight?” Is what eventually leaves his lips, noise of confirmation coming from Dags before the call drops. Door locked behind him, he takes stock of the one room he’s got to work with, stack of magazines and old TV in one corner and an even older chair across from it. Thrift store finds, nothing too flashy that would bring attention. He sits, rocks a little bit. Looks at his phone, one of those default backgrounds staring up at him that Marcus had spent all day deciding on. Kid’s with his mom for the rest of the weekend, but he sends out a text asking for (demanding) a tail, just in case.  
The minutes stretch on, nothing coming through from Dags. The pages of whatever magazine’s on top of the pile rustle as he opens it, and it isn’t until he’s halfway through an article about some famous chick’s supposed baby daddy that he remembers: he and Mrs. Mama Drama didn’t get to talk about the drop. He shoots off a text to her, briefly considering changing her contact name from ‘B’ with a peach emoji (only kept that in there because it made her blush so damn hard the first time she saw her name flash on his screen) to ‘MD’, for, y’know, the kinda drama only PTA moms can cook up before he decides to leave it.  
Back to his trashy magazine, ears tuned for the special vibration he set for her even as he moves from article to ‘fashion inspo’ to article. Normally, she gets back to him within a minute. Five go by, and then ten. Hasn’t even read it yet. He figures maybe she didn’t hear it the first time, sends another. More radio silence. Would bet anything she’s busy with some shit with the kids. He leaves it alone, doesn’t look again until he finishes one magazine (he’s come to the conclusion that Marcus’ whole class could write something better with their eyes closed) and is about to move to another. _Still_ nothing, so he calls. Ring, ring, ring, ring, then “Hi, you’ve reached Beth Boland. I can’t take your call right now -” and he hangs up before her chirpy voicemail gets the chance to finish.  
He’s distracted from all that by a call from Dags, free hand picking at the bent corners of the excuse for a magazine in his lap while he listens. “Found the guy. He’s actin’ alone, some bullshit dime bag pusher who thinks _you’re_ steppin’ on his toes, got more than a couple fucking marbles loose. Boys’re taking care of it, unless you wanna be here.” He’s got better shit to do, _business_ shit to do, and they both know it. Doesn’t even bother responding to the offer, just voices a question. “You know if he actually tried it? Set any shit up?” And what he gets from Dags’ slightly rambling reply is that it didn’t_ seem_ like he set any shit up, but they gotta finish going through all the crap in his rinky dink little apartment to make sure. So, he’s confined to gossip mags and TV he’s realizing he can’t find the remote for for a little bit longer.  
That special vibration he set just for Elizabeth breaks through the quiet not 10 minutes after he hangs up with Dags, and he doesn’t have to look at it to answer. “Where you been, Elizabeth?” Instead of his question met with her usual sass, he gets the faint sound of a shuddering breath. He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else before the voice on the other end of the line (not Beth, but Annie) starts to hitch, dissolving into tears after a couple seconds. He sits up a little straighter, but doesn’t speak - just waits for her to finish whatever this is. She stutters through something about Beth being sick, and he thinks back to the breakfast bandit incident. Seems like she was more than good, far as he saw. So, he don’t think anything of it. Kids bring all kinds of shit back from school, probably picked something up from one of ‘em. “Then you and Ruby make the drop, nothin’ to cry about”. He turns the page of the newest magazine, this one all about what kinda golf club makes for the best something something. He’s met with silence, so he continues. “Made it real clear she’s a big girl, she can handle herself”. The air changes so drastically as he finishes that he can fucking feel it, her breath hitching all over again.  
He knows this is bigger than pink eye or a stomach bug the second it happens, magazine thrown aside and legs uncrossing. “I think she might-”, another pause, another sob. For the second time since he woke up, his blood runs cold. By the time she chokes out that it’s not looking good, all the pieces of this fucked up little puzzle are snapping into place. His breakfast, his coffee, the face she made as soon as she tasted it. “M’on the way.” It’s out of his mouth before he even really finishes thinking about it, and then he’s back on the phone with Dags, telling him to look around the apartment for any kind of powder or sinister looking liquid. Hell, maybe a bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. Tells him he’s leaving his glorified jail cell, tells him he’s taking his fucking car because they’d have found explosives by now if there were any and he doesn’t know how much time he’s got. How much time she’s got.  
Backtracking to his car, checking it over before he gets in it, driving to her place - it’s all a blur. The coffee, if he just hadn’t given her the fucking coffee. Front door’s open when gets there, swinging aside to reveal a dark interior except for the golden glow from what he assumes is a bathroom. He closes the door tight behind him, makes sure it’s locked with a hefty click before he ventures toward the light.


	3. Souper Stressed

When Beth sends out her initial “No movie night, sorry! Stomach bug” text, Annie has two immediate thoughts. One, that her darling, dear sister is just trying to find a way out of watching the OG Dawn of the Dead. Two, that they’re supposed to make a drop, and the whole point of going to breakfast with gang friend was to figure a place out. Their old spot had been stumbled upon by a couple of horny teenagers, and though Annie doubted they could see through all the hormones, everyone else wanted to play it safe.  
She sends off a few gifs in retaliation, and is about to put down her phone and find a protein bar to eat for breakfast when a text from Ruby pops up. “Stan made soup 🍜 [soup emoji]” A second later, another. “Taking a bowl to Beth, wanna come wth?” She _ does _ want to come with, under the condition that she also gets a bowl of soup. Her terms agreed upon, she decides to finally get up and find some pants. With Sadie over at Greg’s, she’s now living a pantless life.  
All in all, it takes her about 30 minutes to get ready, and another 15 to get to Beth’s from her apartment once Ruby shows up. They both try texting Beth, no response. Probably sleeping, or, y’know, something a lot more unpleasant. When her light knock, a ring of the doorbell, Ruby’s heavier knock, and her kicks to the door all go unanswered, she digs her spare key out of her purse. As soon as they step through the doorway, she knows something is wrong. It’s too quiet, too dark, too empty.  
The only light is coming from the bathroom, door wide open. She and Ruby share a look, half-expecting to find a ransom note taped to a severed finger (or maybe that’s just Annie). Somehow, the sight of Beth is worse than the hypothetical finger situation. Eyes closed, she’s half-hanging over the toilet, breath so shallow and skin so grey that for a split second she thinks she’s fucking dead. The red blotches staining her cheeks and the way her entire body is shaking are the only signs of life, eyes barely opening to reveal glassy blue.  
“Beth, hey. Beth.” Ruby’s voice from beside her snaps Annie out of her haze (is this what shock feels like?), but it does nothing for Beth, who continues to stare at them blankly right up until her puffy, swollen eyelids slide back shut. Annie kneels before she realizes she’s even moving, palm coming to rest against her forehead. Her first instinct is to pull it away - it feels like she’s touching a _ frying pan _ , if frying pans could get clammy.  
For a second, words fail her, and she turns to Ruby, free hand gesturing to the entirety of whatever is going on with Beth. “She needs a hospital. Is there a clinic around here, maybe? One of those minute-clinic things?” The words rush out of her all at once, panic making them run together. She’s distracted by slight movement under her hand, and turns to find those same glassy eyes squinting at her. The deflated version of Beth tries to speak, and all that emerges is a sound she imagines someone who’s been gargling broken glass would make. Water, she needs water. Annie looks around for a cup, and conveniently finds one half full on the floor. She holds it to Beth’s lips, only for her to take one sip and immediately spit it in the toilet.  
From outside, she hears Beth’s distinctive ringtone (some classy, sparkly default tone that screams ‘I own a ballgown and I’ve worn it to a ball instead of lying on the couch in it’ which, y'know, Annie's totally never done), and leaves Ruby to supervise while she hunts her phone down. She finds it in the kitchen, dangling precariously on the edge of the sink. “Missed call from Rio” flashes bright on the screen, along with their earlier barrage of text messages and a few from him, asking about the drop. She swipes to call him back, phone pressed a little too tight to her ear. “Where you been, Elizabeth?” Annie almost startles at her full name, mouth moving before she even thinks of something to say.  
“It’s not...it’s Annie.” “Annie” he repeats, deadpan. She thought calling him back was the right move, but she has the tendency to shove her foot in her mouth when she’s nervous, and the fact that her sister is maybe dying in her guest bathroom is making her just a _ little _ nervous. Before she knows it, she’s crying, breath hitching as Rio waits for some kind of response. “Beth’s sick” is what she blurts out once she sucks in a breath, but it comes out choked. “Then you and Ruby make the drop, nothin’ to cry about”. Again, deadpan, almost like he’s watching her cry as he flicks through the morning paper. “Made it real clear she’s a big girl, she can handle herself” he continues, and if she wasn’t holding Beth’s phone instead of her own, she’d have dropped it in the damn garbage disposal and hit the switch.  
She forces in another breath, head shaking despite knowing he can’t see it. “I think she might-” She can’t get the word out, can’t even think about it. “She’s not- it’s not looking good. Like, at all”. A pause, free hand wiping roughly at her eyes. Total silence from the other end of the line, and for a second, it seems like she’s been left hanging. “I’m on the way” comes through just before he hangs up. It’s so fast that she’s halfway convinced she didn’t hear it, but there’s no time to stand there and think. Beth’s phone in the pocket of her jacket, she hurries back to the bathroom, where she’s greeted by the sight of both Ruby and Beth on the floor. Beth is unconscious, Ruby running a rag along her forehead.  
Time for Annie to join the party, then. She takes a seat on the tile, feeling way too unsure of what to do. Sure, she had Sadie, but Sadie never looked like _ this _ . “Rio’s coming, I think” is all she manages as she flushes the mess in the toilet, Ruby’s widened eyes answered with a shrug. She doesn’t know if he’s coming to collect, or “take care” of Beth, or  _ actually _ take care of Beth - it’s Russian roulette with that dude, to put it lightly. The two of them try to get Beth into the shower by themselves, but considering she isn’t even close to conscious, that isn’t going to happen any time soon. They’re just settling her back next to the toilet when they hear the front door swing open, Rio walking in to find them all in various positions on the floor.  
Beth curled up on the carpet in front of the toilet, Annie keeping her head from physically falling into said toilet, and Ruby on rag duty. The looks on their faces must be something else, because he almost looks hesitant. “You eat breakfast?” He asks, head jerking toward the kitchen. “Go ahead, I got it.” Neither of them move, which prompts him to pull the rag from Ruby’s hand and shoo them toward the door. “Just gonna carry her to bed”. It sounds so easy when he says it, so simple. Normally, Annie would make a joke about how she wants a hot guy to carry  _ her _ to bed, but she can’t even manage that. Eventually, they make their way to their feet and file into the kitchen, though neither of them can even think about eating. Blue Tupperware full of Stan’s soup waits patiently on the kitchen counter, carrots bobbing toward the lid even as both of them stand there, unmoving. 


	4. Coming Up Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow oh wow, it's been a hot minute. Nursing school is slowly but surely trying to kill me, thank you all for your patience while I crawled my way through finals to a break long enough to get some sleep and find the time to write.  
New chapter and a new story coming soon!  
If anyone is into RPing and is up for a Brio RP with an angsty plot, let me know!

The first thing his eyes land on is the cup on the floor, for some absurd reason. Then the towel laid out like a pillow, then Ruby’s guarded expression and Annie’s panicked one. Finally, Beth. He doesn’t have to be kneeling beside her to know she’s unconscious, body loose in a way it never was when she was awake. At least, not when he was around.  
He knows what this is, knows there’s nothing they can do but watch the fever and get her hydrated. First, he has to get her the hell off the damn floor.  
Rag still in hand, he leans against the sink as he wets it, other hand rifling through the medicine cabinet in search of a thermometer. He comes up empty, mirror set back in place just in time for him to catch Beth jerking awake in the reflection. She doesn’t move right away - he can only imagine how sore she’s gotta be. Not that he cares, ‘course he don’t. Her eyes roll in her head before they focus on him, sweat-matted bangs obscuring his favorite shade of blue.  
She’s crying, though she doesn’t seem to realize it, tears leaking down her swollen cheeks with no sound. How she’s still hydrated enough for that, he don’t know. She lifts shaky, clumsy hands to rub at her eyes, and he takes the opportunity to sit, cup of water now in one hand and rag in the other.  
Beth peers at him again, and rather than dwell on how her looking at him with tears streaming down her face makes him feel, he pushes the water against her lips. She doesn’t want it, that much is clear. He doesn’t budge, and she eventually takes a sip, only to turn right back around and brace for rejection. It can’t be that bad, he thinks. Surely she can keep down half a sip of water. Just as he finishes that thought, the water resurfaces.  
The skin of her palms squeak against the toilet seat, gripping the bowl like a lifeline. Gonna have a wait a minute for meds, then. The tears that had been steadily flowing before start to turn to sobs, her shoulders shaking as they hunch over the toilet. Maybe that’s shivers from the fever, which is an option he kinda prefers. One glance at her face, though, and it’s all the proof of tears he needs. He wipes at her face with some toilet paper that joins the rest of the spit and tears, but he doubts she notices. Her head starts to bob up and down, like his used to during World History in high school. Then it goes from bobbing to rolling, and he manages to catch her just before she falls headfirst into a toilet. He’d braced for a fever, but he isn’t ready for_ this _.  
He almost, almost flinches. Even if he did, she’s so out of it she’d never notice. Even with all his callouses, the heat from her skin is enough to make his fingers shift like he’s holding a hot potato or a piece of pasta fresh outta the pot. She seems to like it, though, if the way she kinda melts into his hands is any indication. Those glassy baby blues are suddenly wide open, pupils blown as she stares not just at him, but seemingly through him. He taps her cheek with one finger. “Beth.” Nothing. “Beth.” A little firmer, a little louder, still nothing. “Elizabeth.” This time, he shifts her face in his hands, and she finally snaps out of whatever trance she’d fallen into and regards him with a squint and a groan of protest.  
“C’mon, ma, field trip.” By field trip, he means taking her to her bedroom so he can look around for that thermometer and some kinda medicine without having to worry about her diving headfirst into the damn toilet. She seems to consider his words for a moment, a hoarse “Tired” eventually forcing its way through her cracked lips. He knows she is, but lucky for her, she don’t gotta do any walking.  
He pulls his hands away from her face, shaking them out a little bit to cool them the fuck down before one grabs for the rag, the other pulling her so her bicep is touching his chest. One arm across the expanse of her shoulder blades, the other under her knees, and they’re up. He pauses for just long enough to smooth that rag back across her forehead, which barely rouses her.  
He knows the way to her bedroom, but he pokes his head into the kitchen to grab Ruby and Annie anyway. They’re both just...standing, Annie worrying the edges of her sleeves with her chewed fingernails and Ruby tapping a hand against her crossed arms. He swings his head in the vague direction of the bedroom when they both finally look at him, eyebrow quirked. “Grab somethin’ she can use as a puke bucket, yeah?” If _ anybody _ would know what in the house Beth would willingly puke in without wanting to murder all three of ‘em, it’s those two. Not that there’s anything left to bring up, but hey.  
The walk to the bedroom is both familiar and foreign - usually comes in through the sliding door, y’know. He figures it out, one hand reaching to pull back the sheets before he deposits her on the bed. Two of the three Stooges follow close behind, standing at the foot of it while he looks around for that ever elusive thermometer. When he turns back from her bedside table (empty handed), he finds her eyes open, and she swivels said eyes toward him just before she apparently makes the decision to jam her face against the closest pillow.  
She pukes like that, there’s no recovering, so he makes quick work of rolling her onto her back. Her eyes are open yet again, but only enough to carve holes into his skull with those damn daggers. His thumb smooths across her overheated cheek before he even realizes it’s moving, but it seems to ward off any lingering grumpiness. She says something about wanting to sleep, and it’s all he can do to shake his head. “Gimme a minute” is what he goes with, ‘cause he still needs _ some _ kinda thermometer, water, and meds.  
He makes it about two steps back toward the closest bathroom when she starts to roll again, and he stops her with a “Killin’ me, ma” under his breath before readjusting her so she’s propped against the headboard. With a look and a nod toward the end of the bed, he ventures into the bathroom, and after a little bit of rifling, finds a temple thermometer (of course she's got the fancy shit), a couple rags, and some well-loved Tylenol. He wets the rags, scoops up a dose of the pills, gets one of those dinky little paper cups and fills it with water from the sink, and then he’s back, Beth still where he left her.  
He’s not sure why he’s surprised, what with Ruby bracing her against her pillows like they just got into an accident and she’s trying to keep from going through the damn windshield, but he is. One rag to replace the warmed one on her forehead, another across the back of her neck, and he offers her the cup (if you can really count it as a cup) while his other hand puts the pills on the bedside table. Puke bucket that looks like an old popcorn bowl in hand, she manages to take a shaky sip, and to the surprise of not only the lucid people in the room but also Beth, it stays down for more than 10 seconds. He can _ hear _ them all holding their breath, only exhaling when that 10 second mark hits. Then 20, then 30, then a minute. Finally, Beth relaxes the slightest bit against her pillows, everyone else taking half a step back to just, y’know, breathe.  
Satisfied that she can handle enough water in her stomach for the pills, he hands them over, watching to make sure she doesn't spill water all over herself as she tosses them back. They make it in between her cracked lips, followed by the water, and he finally lets out a sigh when she gets them down with a thick swallow. Her eyes close yet again, his never leaving her face as he reaches for the thermometer. It lets out a soft beep as it turns it on, then another one to signal that it's ready, eye closest to him cracking open to watch as he presses it to her temple.  
The seconds seem to stretch on and on, and just as he's about to pull it back to check for an error or some bullshit like that, there's a longer beep. The screen flashes at him, and he can _feel_ Annie and Ruby's necks craning to look as he squints at the numbers. 104.1 - fuck.  
"It's high, ma. Pills don't take it down in 'bout a half hour, we're gonna try a shower." Seems like a good compromise, right? She just got settled in bed, she was keeping the pills down for now, no telling what making her stand up in the shower would do.  
She's not really listening, that much is clear. With a jerk of his head, the two Stooges follow him into the hall, their faces reflecting the shit he's feeling. "Look, it ain't good, but this is progress. Next half hour, we're taking shifts. I got some shit to take care of, so the two of you are up to bat for 15. Anything happens, yell. I'll be in the kitchen." Making calls to get this motherfucker in front of him ASAP, make it so he feels exactly what Beth's going through before he wrings his fucking neck.


End file.
